Suspending Disbelief
by seeingnotobserving
Summary: 'Of course, none of this really makes any difference until you explain how you managed to get a 1950s police box into this flat.'


_For Alex._

Suspending Disbelief

Part One

'I'm back with the… Why are you smoking?' asked John, halting in the doorway with Tesco bags in both hands.

'Don't worry, it's just for commemorative purposes,' replied Sherlock. He was curled up in an armchair, knees tucked up to his chin while slowing puffing on a slim pipe. 'I'd also run out of patches, but…'

He didn't get a chance to finish as his flatmate swiftly reached into his shopping, pulled out a pack of nicotine patches and chucked them in his general direction. Sherlock caught it effortlessly, smiling.

'You can put that out now. And what did you mean by 'commemorative'?' asked John over his shoulder as he shuffled into the kitchen. The detective chuckled.

'Surely you remember what happened on this day?'

A pause.

'How could I forget?'

Sherlock smirked before taking another puff on the pipe.

'Hence the pipe.'

_Five years previously_

It was late morning when John trudged down the stairs for some breakfast. Although his time in the army had conditioned his body to awaken early every day, the case they had finally brought to a close the night before had involved much more legwork than usual – rather unexpected when their targets were a man with a prosthetic leg and a dwarf.

Stumbling into the kitchen with a barely repressed yawn he made a beeline towards the fridge and found, much to his delight, that it was occupied by food instead of body parts. It wasn't until he'd swung the fridge door shut with his hip, leftover Chinese in hand, that he realised he wasn't alone.

In the living room sat Sherlock, fully dressed: a rare sight considering he was usually never up before midday even on weekdays. He was sitting forward, fingers steepled and a look of quiet concentration on his angular face, observing their guest (who was sat with his back to John) minutely and no doubt deducing every last detail of the man's life, probably down to what he'd had for breakfast earlier in the morning.

So it was much to John's surprise when his friend slowly sat back with a frown gracing his pale forehead.

'You're a man of many contradictions, Doctor,' he muttered.

'Keeps things interesting,' replied their guest light-heartedly. 'So! What've you got?'

'Nothing,' sighed Sherlock. 'I can only conclude that you have either many professions or none at all, neither of which are particularly helpful. If I had to choose I would say an academic, maybe a postgraduate, but even then your active lifestyle and time spent around machinery discounts that.

'Of course, none of this really makes any difference until you explain how you managed to get a 1950s police box into this flat.'

'What?' exclaimed John, choking on his breakfast. He quickly stepped into the living room where he spotted the large blue box standing on the rug. 'What the hell is _that_?'

The Doctor leapt to his feet, hand already outstretched in greeting; noticing that John's hands were full, however, he quickly clasped his hands together instead.

'Ah, hello! I'm the Doctor, you must be Doctor John Watson. Sorry I disturbed your breakfast… Oh, fried rice! Haven't had _that _since that time I met that philosopher. Great beard, what was his name…'

John could only stare as the man rambled on, which probably would have continued for the rest of the morning had Sherlock not loudly cleared his throat.

'Doctor,' he interrupted, a touch testily. 'The police box?'

'That? Oh, she's my TARDIS. You're lucky I'm a good parker or that hand in the kitchen would be finished! Well, more finished than it is already, since it's in some _very _concentrated acid.'

John briefly gave his flatmate a look that was both exasperated and amazed: _when did you have time to even set that up? _Sherlock merely rolled his eyes in return, before fixing his gaze back on their guest.

'You _parked_ it?' he asked slowly.

'Her,' replied the Doctor, who had turned to face the box in question.

'What?'

'I parked _her_.'

'…I see,' he muttered, raising an eyebrow. 'Sentimental attachment to the point of personification, which suggests either that you are completely insane, or there is something much more to this police box than meets the eye.'

The Doctor's smile grew wider.

'Couldn't it be both?' he replied, then slowly raised an arm, and clicked his fingers with aplomb. The TARDIS doors swung inward with a creak and Sherlock, who had been sitting close by, found himself stunned speechless at what he saw.

'Sherlock?' asked John, squeezing past their visitor to reach him (the TARDIS took up a fair bit of space in the flat). Whatever he might have said next, however, died on his lips as he too looked into the phone box.

Standing just beyond the open doors was a coat stand, which would have looked very out of place in the phone box had its interior actually resembled one. Instead the two men could see an impossibly large room, with a raised platform at its centre and several steps leading both upstairs and down, all of them leading further into parts unseen. Upon the platform was what appeared to be a console, with a transparent pillar rising through it and towards the high ceiling. True to its name there was a phone nestled amongst the cluttered controls on the console, but it was clear that there was most definitely more to this police box than first met the eye.

'Come on, you two!' cried the Doctor, striding past them. 'I can explain everything once we're off. …mostly everything. All right, not everything.'

Sherlock tentatively got to his feet and stepped forward, tightly gripping the doorframe as if the sight before him was simply an illusion, prone to disappearing at any moment.

'Dimensionally transcendental,' he whispered. He hadn't felt such a sense of awe since his childhood. 'Brilliant.'

John, however, was having a much harder time accepting the sight before him as reality. Glancing down at his breakfast, he simply stated,

'You've drugged me, haven't you.'

'What? No, of course not,' came the distracted reply, as Sherlock ventured further into the TARDIS.

'Then what… Sherlock? Sherlock!' This seemed to snap the detective out of his reverie as he quickly spun on his heel and walked straight out. John was about to congratulate him on the first sensible thing he'd done in a very long while, but was rendered speechless again when Sherlock walked straight past once more and into the TARDIS, this time with coat, scarf and gloves in hand.

'What are you doing?' asked John. He was starting to feel very underdressed for this sort of madness.

'Being prepared. It might be cold where we're going.'

'Not that! You're seriously going to go with… whoever he is? In a bloody box?'

'Yes. Coming?'

'We don't even know who he is! …do you?'

'He calls himself the Doctor, and I found him in the kitchen this morning examining my experiment,' said Sherlock, holding up a hand when John looked to interrupt. 'Which I will explain later. Anyway, beyond that and the fact that everything I can deduce about him doesn't make sense, I know nothing.'

He then leant forward, lowering his voice; he suddenly appeared uncertain.

'There's something else, something I'm missing…' John let out an exasperated laugh.

'What, apart from the fact that this is completely insane? Not to mention impossible?'

'It's improbable, John, not impossible. You mustn't dismiss something unless you have the data to prove otherwise.'

John couldn't help but smile – he had shared a flat and plenty of adventures with the man before him to recognise the look in his eyes. 'You're excited about this, aren't you? Not knowing what's going on.'

'Oh please,' replied Sherlock, gently grabbing his friend's (undamaged) shoulder and pulling him into the TARDIS, then shutting the doors behind him. 'I have a number of theories which suit the few facts available, but I suspect that a box that's bigger on the inside is only the beginning of what's in store for us.'

'Are you lot ready to go yet?' asked the Doctor, who was a flurry of movement around the console. Abruptly skidding to a halt by the railing he span to face them, grinning. 'Good, you're coming. I was worried you'd do the sensiblething and stay behind or something _ghastly_ like that.'

'There's nothing sensible about refusing an opportunity like this,' replied Sherlock, slowly making his way up the steps as he took in the otherworldly beauty of the TARDIS control room. 'Although you still seem to think otherwise, John.'

While the detective had quickly moved forward, his flatmate had quite resolutely remained standing by the door. He probably would have crossed his arms, had he been able to. 'Of course I don't! Sorry, uh, Doctor, but I'm having a pretty tough time suspending my disbelief about this whole thing right now.'

'Ooh, that's good: suspend your disbelief! I might put that on the door, bit of advice before coming aboard. And it's not like anyone looks at the sign that's there now, so…' An indignant blare momentarily filled the control room, causing the Doctor to wince. '…or not. Fine.'

Both newcomers were further taken aback by this apparent exchange. 'Is this box… sentient?' asked Sherlock, looking around in renewed awe while John eyed the coat stand suspiciously.

'Yeah, well,' replied the Doctor, turning back to the central console and flipping a switch seemingly at random. 'She's a bit temperamental, old girl, but she always gets me where I need to go.' He patted a panel affectionately, and Sherlock could've sworn he heard him mutter _you sexy thing_ under his breath.

'Right! So,' he exclaimed, turning to face the detective again. 'This is normally the part when I offer to take you two anywhere in space and time, anything that's ever happened or ever will, blah blah blah, get's 'em every time. Thing is, I have to be very careful this time round because I haven't had a brain like yours onboard in a long while, and letting _that _go wild with time travel is a disaster waiting to happen. And then I remembered this!' He reached over and grabbed what appeared to be a Twister board, with several wires trailing from beneath it connecting to the console. 'Good old Randomiser. Haven't used this since… Er… Never mind.

'This beauty will randomly assign temporal and spatial coordinates for the TARDIS to follow, and all I have to do is land her when she tells me to and see where we've ended up. That way, anything that happens is most definitely not my fault.'

'Hang on,' interrupted John, who had decided to join Sherlock and the Doctor on the platform despite his doubts. 'First a box that's bigger on the inside, and now _time travel_? This is… too much, first thing on a Saturday morning.' He glanced down at himself. 'And I'm still in my pyjamas!'

'Don't worry, not the first time it's happened. I'm sure there'll be something in the wardrobe that fits. But first things first!' The Doctor gave the Randomiser a good spin, then took hold of a large lever and with a quick glance at his two new passengers, yanked it down.

The TARDIS lurched upward in a fanfare of sound, throwing its occupants around the platform. The Doctor was still clutching onto the lever for dear life, a suitably manic grin on his face; Sherlock had been thrown back onto the railing, winding him slightly but not dampening his excitement in the slightest; and while John had been lucky enough to fall onto the booster seat, the fact that the same could be said for the fried rice that had been in his hands moments earlier did little to improve his mood.

'Sorry about that!' shouted the Doctor as he made his way round, flicking switches, mashing buttons and twisting what appeared to be taps. 'Let me just… There!' With a final kick at another lever the TARDIS seemed to stabilise, with only a faint humming to suggest that they might be moving at all.

'Yes, sorry, sorry,' he said, quickly making his way over and swiping off bits of rice and egg that had landed on John. 'I'll clean that up later. Better include time for your breakfast actually, hang on.' In two steps he was back at the console, and gave the Randomiser another hard spin. The large pointer was now rotating slowly of its own accord, occasionally changing direction but never stopping at any of the colours. 'That should do it. Now, while we let it crunch some coordinates, let's get you dressed! The wardrobe's just up those stairs, left at the top, all the way down the corridor 'til you pass the ballroom then the first right after that, left just before the potted plant and it's the tenth doorway on the right. Can't miss it. Oh, and there should be a kitchen two doors down from there, not sure which way though.'

'Um, sorry, but I didn't…'

'I did,' interrupted Sherlock. 'Come on. We'll see you again in a moment, Doctor.' He promptly ascended the stairs while John, after a brief moment of hesitation, followed behind him looking thoroughly confused.

The Doctor was now on his own in the control room, with a wistful expression which belied his youthful features.

'Blimey, two couples in a row. We seem to be on a roll!' A gentle hum. 'What? No, really? Well it's been a very long time since I played matchmaker but…' Another blare. 'Spoilsport.'

* * *

><p>The size of the control room in itself had been a shock to the two latest visitors aboard the TARDIS, but the labyrinthine corridors and endless rooms which they currently found themselves walking through was simply beyond belief. Fortunately, Sherlock's sense of navigation did not fail him as they made their way towards the wardrobe, both too distracted by their own thoughts to speak.<p>

When John did finally break the silence, passing a set of elegant double doors which looked very out of place in the hexagonal corridor, it was clear he still wasn't convinced about the entire situation.

'I still think there was something in the rice.'

'Oh, not this again… Look, it was just the once. And I seem to remember you consented to it at the time.'

'That was for a case! You would've gone ahead with it even if I'd said no, and there was no way I was going to let you fill a room with who-knows-what kind of toxic drug on your own.'

Sherlock smiled at the memory as they turned left just before a very exotic-looking plant. 'I knew you would stay. Anyway, if someone had drugged you then it stands to reason that they would drug me too, and if that were the case then I would know about it.'

He pointedly ignored John's disapproving look.

'No, all this is very real, which is _very_ exciting. So,' he said, finally stopping by a doorway with a weathered blue curtain. 'Ready?'

John let out a nervous chuckle. 'It's just a wardrobe, Sherlock, no need to be dramatic.'

The detective raised an eyebrow. 'Yes, just like earlier this morning when we stepped into _just _a police box.' And with that, he threw the curtain open.

John swore. It seemed appropriate.

Sherlock on the other hand said nothing, a sharp intake of breath the only expression of his shock.

The wardrobe, like seemingly everything in the TARDIS, was disproportionately large. A single spiralling walkway linked numerous levels both above and below where they were standing in a gentle slope, all contained within a tubular structure with walls similar to those in the control room. Along either side of the walkway ran a railing, upon which were clothes of every colour, material, shape and size – it was as if all the theatre companies in the world had simultaneously deposited their costumes in the Doctor's wardrobe and promptly forgotten about them. Countless pairs of shoes and boots lined the walkway underneath the railings, and there was an umbrella stand just by the door holding enough umbrellas and canes to supply a retirement home.

Sherlock stepped onto the walkway, a look of almost childish awe returning to his features. Pushing two jackets apart he leant on the railing at the inner edge, peering over in an effort to see just how large the wardrobe was. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to John and immediately sobered when he saw his friend's deflated posture.

'Right. You'd better get dressed, then,' he said.

'Yeah,' muttered John, slowly running a hand down his face. 'You're not going to help me?'

'I didn't know you needed help getting dressed.'

'Now is really not a good time, Sherlock.'

'No, of course not, sorry,' he replied, sounding more excited than apologetic. 'I simply wanted to see if I could learn any more about this Doctor by examining his other possessions, but if you really do need help…'

John sighed resignedly. 'Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be able to find everything on my own. There's bound to be _something _in my size in here.'

'Excellent. Shout if you need anything.' And with that, Sherlock turned and immediately took the upward direction of the walkway, a spring in his usually measured step.

Having taken several deep breaths, John started down the opposite direction, scanning the items before him for things that looked to be his size and preferably didn't look like it came from a joke shop. Spotting a number of jumpers with a question mark motif, however, he had a sinking feeling that might be very difficult indeed.

While passing a section of what appeared to be Victorian garb he remembered the conversation he had overheard earlier that morning, and the seemingly nonsensical deductions his flatmate had produced. Curious, he shouted out his name, wondering if he could hear him.

'Sherlock?'

'No need to shout, I can hear you perfectly,' came the reply. John could have sworn the voice had come from close by.

'Oh. Right. Just another feature of this wardrobe, I suppose. I wonder if there's a robot assistant somewhere too,' he remarked, as he spotted a pair of jeans that might fit if he turned up the ends.

'Quite possibly.'

'I was… Never mind.'

'You wanted to ask something?'

'Yeah, how did you figure out all those things about him? I mean, I know they don't really make sense together…'

'Oh, I'm starting to think they do.'

'…OK, but how?'

At that moment Sherlock had been puzzling over a bizarre multicoloured coat that looked as if it belonged either in the West End or a fashion designer's nightmare. Replacing it on the railing, he began explaining his thought process in his usual clinical manner:

'I noted his appearance first, as I'm sure you did: bow tie, shirt, braces and a tweed jacket, so either someone with a peculiar sense of fashion or your reassuringly eccentric academic. From our brief chat before you came downstairs I decided on the latter, and judging from his age probably a postgraduate. So far so good.

'But his trousers and footwear tell a different story. His jeans had a worn-out quality that high street shops cannot replicate and the fabric around the knees was thinly stretched which suggests an active lifestyle, most likely running which is confirmed by the state of his boots.'

'Were they well worn?'

'_Very_ well worn. Needed a serious polish and a new set of soles at the very least.'

'And him spending time around machinery?'

'I couldn't get a close look, but I spotted the obvious signs on his hands: calloused skin and small black flecks from oils and lubricants on the edges of his fingernails, hard to get rid of even when you wash your hands regularly. There were a few similar spots as well as one or two spark burns on his shirt, and I'm willing to bet there are more on his trousers if you looked closely enough. So, adding regular work with machinery to the list leaves us with a very mixed description of just one man.'

John was now feeling much more comfortable having found a simple white shirt and a dark green jumper to go with his jeans. While looking for some suitable footwear, he asked, 'Maybe he doesn't change his clothes, or only has the one set?'

'No, the shirt isn't ironed but reasonably clean, and I think it's quite safe to say having seen this wardrobe that he definitely has more than one outfit.'

'So what you're saying is that he works, runs a lot, operates machinery and god knows what else all in the same clothes.'

'Basically, yes.'

'And you're starting to think that it makes sense?'

'No idea,' answered Sherlock, after a lengthy pause. 'A look inside a man's home, especially his wardrobe, usually gives me plenty of details to work with but in this case there's simply too much for it to make any sense.'

'So?' asked John, grunting as he pulled on a pair of faded white trainers whose soles also seemed to be very well worn.

'I suppose we'll just have to ask him, won't we.'

'…right. Well I'm dressed, so let's go to the kitchen so I can get something to eat first. I hope it's a normal size this time.'

'Somehow I doubt it.'

Mercifully, the kitchen was indeed much more manageable and John was soon making quick work of some toast and a mug of tea. While on his second piece, he noticed Sherlock intently studying the pot of jam with his magnifier.

'What is it?' he asked, taking another bite. 'Something wrong? I wouldn't be surprised, this tastes way too normal.'

'Perfectly normal, you say?' asked Sherlock, a smile playing on his lips.

'Yeah, why do you ask?'

'According to the label, it's from the 18th century.'

John froze mid-bite. He slowly withdrew the toast from his mouth and replaced it on the plate, his face suddenly drained of colour.

'Let's head back, I'm sure the Doctor will be able to explain,' said Sherlock, struggling hard not to smile as he led his friend out of the kitchen.

* * *

><p>'Ah, you're back. Almost there, just need to…' The Doctor trailed off as he noticed John's state. 'Blimey, what happened?'<p>

'Nothing, he just tried some of your jam for his breakfast,' replied Sherlock, gently settling John on the booster seat. 'He was rather shocked when he found out if was over three hundred years old, though.'

'Oh, I see! Don't worry, it's as fresh as the day it was made, the worst you could get is a toothache if you don't brush your teeth properly.'

'How is that even possible?' asked John weakly.

'Very useful things, status-locked fridges,' said the Doctor. 'Anything you put inside will be kept in that state for as long as you like. And that pot wasn't _that _old anyway, only picked it up a few weeks ago.'

Sherlock joined the Doctor at the console and immediately got to the point.

'Who are you?' he asked bluntly.

'I'm the Doctor. I'm sure I mentioned it earlier,' came the unfazed reply.

'Fine, _what _are you?'

'Well,' said the Doctor, pausing for thought. 'I'm a bit of a traveller, bit of a madman, bit of an everything really.' Noticing Sherlock's frustrated look, he added, 'But you want to know if I'm an alien or not, don't you? The answer is yes, I'm a Time Lord and no, _you_ look like _us_. We came first.'

It wasn't very often that someone got the better of Sherlock, and John couldn't hold back a smile as he noted the brief look of surprise on his friend's face. The detective managed to hide it well however and continued his questioning.

'So why us? Why humans?'

The Doctor did not answer immediately. He sat himself on the edge of the console, as a pensive smile replaced his cheerful one.

'Humans,' he said softly. 'Of all the creatures and all the civilisations in the Universe, you lot are one of the most diverse and fascinating, capable of both great and terrible things. How could I resist?'

The control room was quiet for a few moments as Sherlock and John contemplated this answer.

'And us? Why John and I?' asked the detective quietly.

'Sorry, can't answer that!' Before Sherlock could respond a high-pitched beeping filled the room, which the Doctor took as his cue to become a flurry of movement around the console once more. John noticed that the spinner on the Randomiser had stopped moving: right foot on blue.

The control room began shaking violently, even more so than take-off and the Doctor seemed to become more and more agitated as the shaking grew steadily worse.

'Right! No, not right. Argh!' cried the Time Lord as a shower of sparks erupted by his left elbow. 'Stop that! I'm trying to land you, now which one do I…' He seemed to be deliberating over a panel of four different buttons set into the side of the console. An idea struck John.

'Doctor!' he shouted over the noise. 'Right foot on blue!'

'_What_?'

'Right – foot – on – blue! It says so on the…' he was interrupted by another violent shudder which threw him off the seat and onto the floor.

'Ah ha! Of course!' The Doctor grabbed hold of another lever to steady himself, then kicked the blue button with his right boot.

The resulting calm sent the passengers sprawling one last time. The Doctor immediately got to his feet and moved to help John up. 'Ha, I knew I always chose the best and you, John, are _brilliant_.'

'Thanks, I think,' replied John, groaning. 'Where are we then?'

'No idea. Somewhere in the infinite possibilities of space and time. It's all relative, you know; good old Albert,' said the Doctor as he strode towards the TARDIS doors. Sherlock and John glanced at each other, then quickly followed.

The Doctor looked back at his new passengers, flashing them a grin, then took hold of the handles and threw the doors open.

'Oh. Well this is disappointing.'


End file.
